To Be Or Not To Be
by Reuben deFlash
Summary: A pocket watch, copycat burgalries, a calling card, a series of morbid murders centred around the works of William Shakespeare, the ever present threat of Moriarty, and not to mention Mycroft is up to something. The City's never dull. R&R please.
1. Chapter One: Cohabitation

_Hello - so wrote this after the first episode of this awesome show, and thought I'd upload it. It does feature a bit of light romance too to keep all those out there who are into that happy. I like it too. I was eager to explore the friendship between John and Sherlock, whilst having a bit of fun. I love London; it's a great character. I apologise now if the mystery or the cases aren't very clever; I'm not Stephen Moffat or Mark Gatiss! But hope you enjoy anyway - it does feature an OC who is based on one of the original characters but I have reworked it and made it my own. Thanks! RdF_

Chapter One – Cohabitation

'Ah, John love, I was hoping you'd be back soon,' Mrs Hudson said, immediately pouncing on John Watson as he stepped through the door of 221b Baker Street after a long day at the clinic. Locum work was, as Sarah had told him when he went for the interview, rather mundane but the clinic was always packed with the general public and their problems and so he never had a moments rest. He'd been particularly inundated with worried mothers and their babies today; the cold winter months had left them with coughs their little bodies couldn't shake and none of the parents would leave his examination room without prescription slip in hand. He would have thought a former army doctor might have a little more resolve and determination when telling someone their son was fine but he'd come to the conclusion the British Forces might have won the war by now if they recruited stubborn mothers whose children were unwell.

"Is something the matter Mrs. Hudson?" he asked wearily, noting her worried frown. She glanced up the stairs, seemingly unsure what to say, before edging forward a little bit.

"Er...it's Sherlock. There's been some strange noises coming from upstairs - banging and crashing, that sort of thing - and when I went to see if he was alright," the elderly woman told him in a low voice, "he simply said 'not now Mrs. Hudson'. The doors been shut all day." As if to oblige her, there was a bang above them.

John sighed and closed his eyes briefly. They were both used to Sherlock's bizarre behaviour and strange idiosyncrasies but that didn't mean the occurrence of such things were easy to deal with.

"I'll go speak to him," John concluded, glancing up the stairs as she had done, bracing himself.

"Oh thank you dear," Mrs. Hudson smiled. "I wouldn't normally mind, only it sounded dangerous - you know what he's like - and I'd hate to think he'd hurt himself."

John managed a smile. "No, that would be terrible," he replied sarcastically, as he began to pace the stairs slowly, ready for whatever possibility lay behind the door to the flat. Yes, it was quite possible that whatever his flatmate was doing, it was dangerous. After all, it had not been that long ago that he'd come back to find Sherlock randomly firing bullets into a wall.

John wasn't a detective but he'd managed to work out that Sherlock was a difficult character to put into a neat little box. He had known him only a few months, during which time, Sherlock Holmes had proved himself to be the most selfish, conceited and apathetic person John had ever known; he was essentially a child trapped in a tall, angular man's body, devoid of much compassion, with none of the normal attributes of the 'human condition'. Everything bored him - normality _bored _him. His sole passion in life was chasing after mystery and intrigue, solely to unravel it and challenge his intellect. He never cleaned the flat, sometimes didn't talk for days, and never ate when he was working. He had not been wrong when he had remarked he 'must be a difficult person to find a flatmate for'.

But he was also extraordinary. His mind moved faster than the time it took for someone to walk through a door, and he'd have deduced their life story in that time too. John had seen it first hand, and been on the receiving end. Sometimes John didn't have time to feel utterly amazed before Sherlock had done something else that turned his admiration into infuriation.

Whatever was going on behind that door (and he could hear the sound of Sherlock's quick pacing), it had come after a dry bout; three days where Sherlock was so defunct by the lack of interesting cases, John had found him lying upside down from the sofa at two in the morning trying to read a book on hieroglyphs. Everything, it seemed, was a little more bearable from that angle.

"Sherlock?" John tried, rapping his knuckles on the door and getting close so he could talk through the wood. He tried to turn his key but it wouldn't budge - Sherlock's must be left in the lock on the other side. "Can I come in?"

"Not now John," came the reply. "Busy."

"Doing what exactly?" he said calmly, though he couldn't hide his impatience very well as the words slipped past his teeth.

"Working. I'm almost...there - we're out of milk by the way."

"Last time I checked you were perfectly capable of going to the shops, especially seeing as you don't have a real job and could pop out any time. You know, it'd be really great if you could let me in, and then I wouldn't have to talk through the door."

"Real job...I'm on the brink of a critical breakthrough, one that may save an innocent man from prison. Real job indeed," John heard him mutter.

"Right, sorry. I thought you didn't have any cases?"

"Something interesting came up, obviously." A pause. "How was lunch with Sarah?"

"How could you possibly know I had lunch with Sarah?" John asked, feeling himself subdue a little as Sherlock brought up his colleague whom he'd been seeing for some time. He was still a little shy when it came to talking about her, and he knew Sherlock found human relationships ridiculous.

"Simple," called back his flatmate, in a bored, wearisome voice. "You didn't pack lunch today and you left wearing your pale blue shirt. Not a shirt put on simply for patients - little more expensive and better cut, far too good for sick people - so you must have been meeting someone for lunch. Could have been professional, but the aftershave suggested otherwise. You're not the sort of man to have several women on the go, and since you mentioned Sarah the other night, in that pathetically adoring voice usually associated with people in the early stages of a relationship, I assume you're still seeing her. Also, I overheard her chance remark the other week about 'how nice you looked in blue' which must have gone in because every time you've arranged to meet her since you've worn some shade of blue." There was a sudden scraping, which sounded as Sherlock was pushing something across the floor and true enough when he answered, he was out of breath. "Pretty logical conclusion, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, you're very clever," John said, looking at his watch and looked down at his blue shirt. "Look I've had a long day - I'm tired and I'm hungry..."

"There's no food either."

"You're joking."

"Innocent man, John. Prison." There was a loud smash.

"Open this bloody door!" John shouted, hitting it with his fist, losing all shred of patience he had left. He didn't enjoy the feeling of helplessness, or the constant feeling of being on the outskirts of Sherlock's mind.

It opened unexpectedly leaving John a little startled. He lowered his fist and straightened his jacket, swallowing before addressing the man standing in the doorway, who was wearing a small smile.

"Thank you," John said slowly, stepping past as Sherlock stood aside to let him in. He breathed a small sigh of victory until he saw the room.

"What the bloody hell happened!" he said as he looked around at the utter chaos - more chaotic than usually that was. Sherlock functioned better it seemed when everything was scattered from one end of the room to the other, claiming he knew where everything was. Mrs. Hudson, John knew, did her best to tidy and dust when they were out, but it was nigh on impossible at times. Sherlock had also told her not to bother, because she seemed to remove items that she deemed inappropriate or morbid, and he'd still not forgiven her for the loss of his skull.

But this was something worse; he'd moved the furniture round and changed everything, scattered papers, the windows were shut, locked and the curtains haphazardly drawn, some chairs were knocked over and when he placed his foot down, he heard the crunch of glass beneath his feet.

"Were we burgled?" John asked, though he knew that wasn't what had happened.

"I'm recreating a crime scene," Sherlock explained, looking around with his hands on his hips.

"Recreating a crime...is that my mug?" John cried incredulously, pointing at a shattered cup on the floor.

"Yes. None of the other mugs were...quite the right size," the taller man said, without a trace of remorse as he wandered over to a stack of paper. He seemed to check himself, turning on his heels slightly to face John.

"Did it have a sentimental value?" he asked blankly.

"No, but that's not the point. Look at this room! Didn't you think about mentioning that you planned to do this? Or, here's a radical idea, _asking _me if I minded you ransacking the flat!" John started trying to tidy up. Sherlock shot forward, and yanked the papers from his hand, dropping them on the floor.

"You weren't here. Don't touch anything."

"I have a phone."

"Too busy to text. Besides, my phone is my jacket pocket."

John cast his eyes towards the coat on the back of the door, metres from the other man. "Unbelievable."

"What was that?" Sherlock murmured.

"Nothing. So what's this case then?" John asked, not sure where to sit or stand, bobbing to sit in his armchair and noticing it was on its side. "Must be pretty important if you've had to go to these lengths to solve it."

"Not particularly," Sherlock replied pulling a book from the shelf, consulting an A4 photograph and then throwing the book into a corner. He stood on a coffee table to see where it had landed and jumped down with the boundless energy he only possessed when he was working. "But it's got some degree of intrigue so I thought I'd take it on."

"Anything I can help with?" John sighed.

"Can you tell me what's wrong with this picture?" Sherlock asked, gesturing around the room before ruffling his hair in thought.

John raised an eyebrow. "I could tell you a few things that are wrong with this picture."

"Oh for goodness...are you still upset about the mug? I'm _sorry_," Sherlock said in a dismissive, irritated voice.

"No you're not," John retorted but sighed and shook his head. "What am I supposed to be looking for then?"

"The answer to this," Sherlock said, flicking a photograph with his long fingers as he held it up for John. The doctor took it as Sherlock moved to the window and pushed the drape aside slightly to look out.

"This is the original crime scene," John stated, looking at the photo. "What's so special about it then?"

"It was the impossible break in," Sherlock said languidly. "The room was locked, the windows were locked, and the chimney had been blocked years before. Someone broke in, did this, found what they were looking for and left."

"Did they take anything?"

"Nothing of real value, but a very sentimental object to the owner of the house. A book."

"A book?" John said, blinking.

"Well, a diary. And the woman is very eager to have it back since it contains some rather scandalous entries about her liaisons with politicians," Sherlock said with a gleeful smile. "Which has always struck me as particularly stupid."

"What - sleeping with politicians?" John asked with a snort.

"Writing it down. Blackmail, waiting to happen, which is exactly what our poor Miss Isaacs is afraid of." Sherlock paused and ruffled his dark curls in frustration. "She's getting married and putting her checkered past behind her, but she's not eager for her cavorts to go public."

"I shouldn't expect she is," John said with a faint smile. "Might put a downer on their relationship."

"I'm not concerned with that," Sherlock said, waving a hand. "And it's bothering me that the thief hasn't made contact, demanding hush money." Sherlock looked at him. "Did you say you were going to make coffee?"

"No, I..." John paused as his flat mate flashed a brief smile. "Would you like a coffee Sherlock?" he asked, clenching his jaw.

"Oh, how kind. Black. Two sugars."

John heaved another great sigh and pulled off his jacket. It was like living with a child; no thought for anyone but himself, Sherlock lived in a small world where the earth revolved around him and only him (rather than the Sun - a piece of information that Sherlock had admitted to 'deleting' as it 'wasn't important', which in John's opinion summed up the other man eloquently). Doing something like this was entirely like him. Neither did John expect Sherlock to take initiative and begin cleaning up the room once he'd solved the case.

Flicking the kettle on, John leant against the counter and glanced through at Sherlock who was studying the picture closely, and witnessed him toss it over his shoulder with a loud cry of frustration before throwing himself onto the sofa (which was now where the desk should be). His fingers went together in a pensive expression; eyes closed, deep breath, clenched jaw.

"What are your thoughts on Miss Isaacs then?" John asked when he brought Sherlock's coffee through, frowning as he looked for somewhere to put it. He settled for the radiator.

"Vulgar. Particularly vain and shallow breed of woman. Not very clever," Sherlock replied without opening his eyes.

"Don't hold back, will you," Watson replied quietly with a smile. "Do you think she's lying then? That she took the diary as a publicity stunt or something?"

"The thought crossed my mind until I met her - she was wearing her engagement ring which was particularly eye catching - obviously genuine, Cartier, two point five carat. But then there was her cheap acrid perfume, fake designer clothes, her smoking habits. She smoked two cigarettes in the half an hour we spoke - not an expensive brand. Her nervousness is entirely selfish; she's anxious her fiancée will find out, and he's far richer than she is. She stands to gain more married than she would as the latest political titbit." He clicked his tongue. "She was fairly transparent."

"Does she love him or not then? This fiancée. She sounds like a gold-digger."

Sherlock's eyes shot open and his head turned to the other man with a puzzled frown. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Obviously nothing," John said slowly. "Carry on."

Sherlock returned to his pensive state. "She has an alibi for the time of the robbery. Nobody else has a key to the house - no family, and someone who owns knock off Louis Vouiton wouldn't have a housekeeper."

"Not even the fiancée?"

Sherlock inhaled a deep breath, almost as if he was tired of explaining. "Would you give your fiancée a key if you'd been fooling around with half the Shadow Cabinet John?"

John bunched his muscles and swallowed hard. "No...But if I were a rich man dating a girl like that, I'd find it fishy if she didn't give me a key," he said a little haughtily. "Wouldn't you?"

Sherlock made a sound with his throat and sighed. "Perhaps."

"What about one of the politicians she slept with? Surely they'd want to erase the evidence," John suggested, sipping his coffee.

"As far as she knows, none of them were aware she kept a record of their time together, but we won't discount it. Spectacularly naive woman," Sherlock added, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm over complicating it. The scene is too impossible, too strange – there must be a simpler explanation."

John knew better than to push Sherlock while he was thinking, and thinking he was because for the next couple of hours, not a word escaped the other man's lips. Mrs. Hudson knocked timidly on the door, and John leapt hurriedly to reach it before she walked in and saw the state of the place. She glanced at him, and tried to look past him, but John gave her a wide smile and closed the flat door behind him, so she simply handed him a dish of pasta bake. It smelt delicious and he hadn't realised how hungry he was; Sherlock's antics had once again obscured the normal trivialities of human life. Sherlock did not eat while he was working, and there had been cases they had worked on when the sudden pang and realisation that he had not eaten for nearly two days hit John with such shock he almost had to laugh at himself.

"He's on a case then?" Mrs. Hudson whispered as John took the pasta from her gratefully.

"Er, yes. Big case. Can't be...disturbed...are these courgettes?" he laughed nervously as she tried to walk into the kitchen. Luckily he'd slid the partition glass across that divided the kitchen and living room, and none of Sherlock's handiwork was visible.

"Aubergines, love." She craned her neck to see Sherlock's silhouette through the glass, stretched out across the sofa.

"Right. Aubergines. Good. Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," John smiled politely, standing stock still, indicating for her to leave.

"And the banging?" she asked with a wrinkled frown.

"Got a little too excited watching daytime TV."

"Oh, I can understand that," Mrs. Hudson laughed, forgetting her curiosity and heading for the stairs. "Jeremy Kyle had me in an absolute stew for hours the other day - the nerve of some people you know. All these young parents, shirking responsibilities. If you've made your bed, you've got to lie in it, I always say, and not with three different people...but I don't have to tell you. A nice young man like you understands monogamy." She patted his arm fondly and headed down stairs as he breathed a sigh of relief.

Ten minutes later, John was spooning some pasta onto his plate when a sudden cry from the lounge made him almost drop both the plate and spoon. Sherlock appeared at the arch of the kitchen, sliding the doors open with a triumphant expression, hair slightly wild, and his eyes wide with excitement.

"Staring us the in the face John!" the man cried. John blinked, recoiling from Sherlock's outburst and followed him.

"Sorry – what is?"

"It wasn't a robbery at all! The book never left the room."

"What? Why break in to _not_ steal something and then make it look like it had been?"

"The thief hid the book to scare Miss Isaacs." Sherlock moved around quickly; the lethargy he'd experienced moments before had seemingly nonexistent. "Don't you see?" he exclaimed, staring at John. "The fiancée had a key made – probably snuck in to wait for her as some kind of surprise. Miss Isaacs isn't a careful sort of person – kept a diary about who she'd slept with for goodness' sake – didn't feel the need to hide it either. Why bother when no one else has got a key? He finds it, reads it, decided to teach her a fairly harmless lesson by making it look like a mysterious political break in. He was upset enough to make it look convincing. Of course if anyone figured out he had a key, he couldn't be caught with the book – he'd be arrested, she'd break up with him – to his stupidity, he actually loves her. No one spends that much on an engagement ring unless they're serious. So he hid it in the room, trashed the flat and left again. That's why she's not received any word from a blackmailer, that's why it seemed impossible."

"Where's it hidden then?" John asked. Sherlock grabbed the photograph and showed it to the doctor.

"In plain sight." He jabbed the page with a finger and grinned. John squinted and laughed nervously.

"You're kidding."

Sherlock pulled out his phone, which had beeped inside his pocket while he'd been giving his conclusion. "The art of disguise is blending perfectly into your surroundings. Where else would you hide a book?"

"In the bookcase - seriously?"

The other man strode across to the doorway and pulled on his long coat so it twirled with a dramatic finesse that seemed to go hand in hand with every movement the man did. "She didn't expect it to be there; look at her bookcase - some of the spines are backwards - she's careless with things, especially books - it'd be easy to hide a book there. Everyone was too focused on the break in to notice that."

"Fantastic," John said, scratching his head as Sherlock strode to the door. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock spun on his heels and took a deep breath. "Fresh air. And Lestrade has summoned us," he added waving his Blackberry at him.

"But what about this mess!" John laughed incredulously.

"Mrs. Hudson can do it," Sherlock shrugged. "She likes taking care of us."

"Er, she likes to dust occasionally and give us leftover food," John explained. "It's not fair to ask a sixty year old woman..."

"Sixty two."

"Sixty two year old woman...to clean up _your_ mess! She has a bad hip."

"Fine. When I get back."

"And don't think I'm going to help. This was your –"

"Are you coming? There's been a murder at Shepherd's Bush," Sherlock asked as if John had said nothing at all, wrapping his blue scarf round his neck. The doctor bit the inside of his cheek, frowning and looking around the room with a reproachful look. Sherlock blinked expectedly with a smug smile - he already knew the answer.

"Yes," John sighing grabbing his coat and pulling on quickly. _Of course he was going. _


	2. Chapter Two: A Third Murder

Chapter 2 – A Third Murder

The paths and streets of London were glistening from the smattering of rain they'd been privy to early that evening. The cab had passed Shepherd's Bush Green and Uxbridge some time before and these houses were much further from the lights of the high street. Where they were headed would have usually been deadly silent at this hour, with all its inhabitants asleep, but now it was abuzz with noise, people unearthed from their beds, bright flashing police lights, and the air – which should have tasted of nothing – tasted of murder.

Sherlock Holmes stepped out of the cab quickly, glancing around before turning smartly on his heels to hand the cab driver some money. John wondered why Sherlock still insisted on taking cabs everywhere after his run in with Jeff the Cabbie the other month, but it was how he preferred to travel and neither love nor money could dissuade that man from doing exactly as he chose. He might have been summoned by Lestrade, but he certainly wouldn't go anywhere in a police escort. John supposed that fear was just another 'human thing' that Sherlock didn't trouble himself with, but as he had pointed out to John, logically, the odds of another homicidal cab driver were slim to none.

John Watson joined his flat mate's side as the black vehicle drove off, and looked up at the house as he pulled his coat around himself. "First impressions?"

"None of note," Sherlock murmured in a low voice, before heading towards to the house. The DI, a greying man of his early forties, was talking to an officer in uniform when he recognised the men walking towards him. Lestrade hadn't been detective inspector for long when he had first heard of Sherlock Holmes, and while he was a capable man in the London Metropolitan Police Force – one of the best in fact – he wasn't a few weeks in before he realised he needed Sherlock. Criminals were getting bloody smart, that was for sure, and when you had a smart criminal, you needed a smarter man to work it all out. And Lestrade was the first to admit he wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. He couldn't get inside the mind of a killer in the way Sherlock could, and he didn't know whether he should be impressed or frightened.

"See you got my message then," the man said, sauntering over to him. "Thought about replying?"

"It crossed my mind," Sherlock replied, sniffing and looking around. "What's happened?"

Lestrade let them in immediately, ignoring the looks he received from his colleagues; their disapproval boiled down to little more than jealously – a kind of bitterness that they couldn't solve it, and the man who had breezed past them without so much as a word would know the life story of the victim, his killer and both of their grandmother's in the short time he was allowed.

"Victim's name is Ben Tobin. He was murdered yesterday evening, and found today. I wouldn't have called you otherwise but these murders are mounting up," the DI started, as John pulled on some forensic scrubs. "There have been two others – all presumably linked. This one...well, you can see," he added uncomfortably gesturing to the room he had led them to.

The room was dim, with forensic lights stationed around the room at various points; it was a chilling scene, with the body sprawled out centre, and video camera pointed at an angle towards some glistening words on the wall. Sherlock stepped in and looked around with a scrutinising expression, swiftly followed by John. A dark haired woman in the corner, dressed like Watson and examining something closely, looked up. She seemed to take in their presence, assessing them, and quick as a flash, smiled brightly at them both.

"Ah, the cavalry," she said is an almost cheery voice, pulling a pen from behind her ear and scribbling on a clipboard. "I wondered when they'd call you in. You're a little late though – I figured this kind of thing would be right up your twisted little alley."

Sherlock sighed in an irritated way. "John Watson, this is Jane Adler – she's part of the forensic and pathology team. Jane, Dr John Watson," he added with a blank emotionless smile that he often gave people that went as quickly as it appeared. It was for show, and held nothing behind it. His attentions soon fell to the body before them.

"Nice to meet you," Jane smiled, shaking John's hand firmly and meeting his gaze with bright eyes. "You must be the new flat mate. I've heard a lot about you."

"Yeah I...have you?" John started with a confused smile, looking at Sherlock from an answer; the woman and Sherlock clearly knew each other, but he doubted they were friends of any sort. Sherlock didn't have friends, John had observed - he wasn't even sure if he classed as a friend - so it seemed incredibly unlikely that she had gained her information through a tête-à-tête with the detective over a friendly coffee.

"How's my brother Jane?" Sherlock asked blankly. John turned his head to look at her, but the woman's eyes didn't rise from what she was doing - she was obviously accustomed to Sherlock taking one look at someone and knowing what they'd been doing.

"Your...brother?" she repeated slowly, without a trace of emotion in her voice.

"Yes, Mycroft. Slightly fatter than me, receding hairline, works for the government. You met with him today. You've tried to mask the scent of his favourite cigars but they're particularly pungent," Sherlock concluded, sniffing.

"Maybe I took to smoking," she said quietly with a smile at John, who weakly returned it.

Lestrade, who had stayed quiet, shifted anxiously. "Look, I need you to give me as much as you can," he said. "I'm going to leave you with Jane..."

Sherlock let a reproachful look cross his face.

"Jane stays," Lestrade said, exerting some authority. "I'm going to have to speak to the people who live next door, see if they noticed anything and someone's got to stay here with you. Besides, she's as good an assistant as any – at least she can follow you when you go off on one of your tangents." Sherlock pulled a face like an angry child that couldn't have his own way. "Just try and get along."

"It's me or Anderson," Jane added with a smirk. Sherlock seemed to ponder on her words before answering.

"I'll take the lesser of two evils." Another flash of his false smile. "What do we know so far?" he asked crouching beside the body.

"Someone rang the station saying there'd been a murder and gave us the address," Lestrade answered. "Just like the last two times."

"Ah, our killer has an ego," Sherlock said with a smirk. "Traceable number?"

"Pay phone."

"And the other murders have been like this?" John asked, staring at the walls with a grim expression.

"Like I said, we believe they're linked. Each murder is different but there are distinct similarities, for example, our killer's left a little note at each crime scene. " They all looked at the painted words – _THE OBSERVED OF ALL OBSERVERS_ – in a violent red - presumably blood. A look from Jane confirmed it. John suddenly felt the gravity of the horror they found themselves in and swallowed hard. He'd seen terrible things, enough for a lifetime, but the casualties of war were regrettable, at times necessary. He had strong morals but he could rationalise killing when people's lives were in danger. This was, or appeared to be, cold blooded murder - to no true purpose. Sherlock blinked as the words registered.

"Hamlet," he muttered.

"Pardon?" John said with a frown.

"It's a line from Shakespeare's _Hamlet_," Jane replied, smiling at John.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Yeah, they all seem to be from Shakespeare's plays – the first was _Othello_, and the second from _Macbeth_."

"You should have called me sooner," Sherlock scolded in a raised voice. His face was pale in the dim light and he looked menacing. Lestrade shifted uncomfortably.

"It's not as easy as that! While I'm happy to admit that when I'm over my head I need your help, I can't run to you at the first sign of trouble. The new Superintendent wants us to at least look like the Metropolitan police are having a stab at it." He exhaled a disgruntled sigh and folded his arms. "Look – you've got five minutes...if you need it. I'm going to interview those people." He left quietly, shutting the door behind him.

Sherlock seemed to pause in a pensive state before he turned quickly back to the scene. Jane clicked the pen she had been using and crossed her arms with an expectant look at the curly haired man in front of her. "What can you tell us then? I presume you've already figured everything out."

"The victim is a military man," Sherlock said looking at the body face down on the floor. "But judging by his clothes and physique has been out of service for some time..." The tall man rootled in his pockets and gently turned him. "His glasses didn't break as he fell, otherwise there would be lacerations to the face – they were removed before the victim fell, either by hand or from the blow. The distance and angle suggests removed," he added, stepping backwards slowly to trace the direction of the glasses. "Removal makes it more symbolic, ritualistic. Then," he said looking at the broken glasses "they were trodden on by the killer. Deliberately. I'd say he was a size ten by these scuff marks, and the way the glass lies."

"He?" Jane said. "You're sure it's a He?"

"Of course it's a He. The strength required to kill the victim, the size of his feet, the handwritten message, the decidedly masculine feel to this crime scene. So far, so obvious."

"I guess you've got a point," John said, looking at the man's head. "Whoever did that was strong and pretty angry."

Sherlock moved around the body quickly. "Look at his leg – it's at a slight angle to his body which means he fell awkwardly, probably an injury he's had for some time - his body sub consciously moved in a way so not to cause pain. Also his watch and jewellery look expensive but aren't; they're poor quality, cheap, as are his clothes. He wants to look good on the surface – sense of pride – but he hasn't got the money. Army pension's a crippler," he said, breathing a little harder from his rant and looking at the quiet man in the corner.

"Yeah, that is true," John agreed with a slightly bitter voice.

"Of course it is," Sherlock interrupted. "A military man who was injured, and has been home for some time. Unable to get a job and living off his army pension. Why's he not been able to get a job? Because he's been dealing with psychological trauma – the leg, the packet of cigarettes in his pocket; new - the receipt in his pocket dates the purchase at eleven this morning - and nearly empty – so he was a nervous man, dealing with intense emotions, perhaps guilt, maybe remorse."

"So far, so obvious," Jane repeated a little sarcastically, perhaps for John's benefit.

Sherlock put away the tiny magnifying glass he'd been using. "John - would you come and examine the body?"

"Er, yeah, sure," John said, stooping down, turning the man's face. "He had a fairly deep wound on his torso from a sharp weapon but..." John frowned as he struggled to turn the large body. "It wouldn't have killed him. It's not deep enough. Judging by the discolouration in the face, I'd say he died of asphyxiation."

"And what of the video camera?" Sherlock asked Jane. She turned it around carefully towards them.

"See for yourself." She pressed play as both men rose to watch; it was the victim, presumably moments from death and his reaction as he walked into the room – the camera had been set up before and waited with the killer behind it to capture the scene.

"Oh, this is elegant," Sherlock murmured softly.

"_Please," _the man started to beg. A gun clicked behind the camera.

"How did Hamlet die?" John asked quietly, both mesmerised and horrified by the screen.

"Poisoned sword – in a rapier battle with Laertes, they're both wounded by the same sword and Hamlet dies some time after from the poison on the blade," Jane answered grimly.

"_I am justly killed by mine own treachery..." _Ben Tobin read from a sheet of paper, sobbing as he did so. The video cut out shortly after.

"The victim was killed in the same way as Hamlet was. The poison caused the asphyxiation," John said slowly, swallowing hard.

"Very poetic," Jane said, moving away with a heavy sigh.

"Our killer has a morbid obsession with the Bard," Sherlock concluded thoughtfully. "I need to see the other bodies."

"Well, I can take you to them, but I'll need Lestrade's permission," Jane said folding her arms.

Sherlock rolled his eyes once more. "I think I have clearance."

"I know that, but I still have to stick to the rules, even if you won't."

Lestrade came into the room hurriedly. "The Superintendent just pulled up – you pair need to hot foot it out. Now," he said, looking grey. "Just hide in the other room while I bring him in here and then you can sneak past. It'd be easier if you wore your bloody scrubs; then you'd blend in," he added with a whine at Sherlock.

"I need to see the other bodies," Sherlock stated as if Lestrade hadn't spoken.

"Fine, you can see them in the morning," the other man replied dismissively. "Now go!" he hissed.

"I need to see them now," Sherlock continued blankly. "If you want me to find the murderer."

"I'll take him," Jane said brushing past Sherlock with her things. "I'm headed there anyway." A forensics team began to filter in to collect the victim's body. "Sometimes, if you want the child to behave, you have to give him the illusion that he's getting what he wants," she said in low voice to Lestrade, though Sherlock and John heard her. He nodded thoughtfully, and Jane slipped past him to head downstairs.

"Fine," the DI sighed again, softening a little. "The bodies are all yours. Text me any leads, or just pass them on to Adler. Just do me a favour and be discreet. My neck's on the line at the minute."

"Wonderful," Sherlock smiled, heading out. "Come along John."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Sherlock," said Molly in a surprised chirp as they all breezed in. She'd been putting some paperwork through, expecting it to be another slow night; she quite liked the graveyard shift, after all it was peaceful, but the peace meant it could be a little dull. "I didn't know you were working tonight."

Sherlock unwrapped his blue scarf and removed his long coat, throwing them on the hooks by the door. John did the same, but hung his carefully. They'd all gotten a cab from the house to St. Bart's, and Sherlock had spent the entire journey in deep thought and a frosty silence with Jane Adler. Not that she was very talkative either; in fact, she either stared out of the window, or stared at her phone. John didn't know the ins and outs of their relationship, but it seemed that they didn't get along very well; at least, Sherlock seemed to really dislike her presence and he made no effort at all to talk to her. But then again, he was like that with most people. Yet, after the whole Mycroft thing, John had expected him to probe her a little more. Perhaps his mind was completely focused on the case now.

"Can you get the bodies out please Molly?" Sherlock simply said as he sauntered through the lab, examining his cuff.

Molly looked at them all with a timid expression; Jane prepping some tools, Sherlock with his hands in his pockets now, and that quiet doctor watching it all as she was. This was just like Sherlock to come swooping in and demand something – whatever it was he had asked – and disturb her peace. When he wasn't around, she got on quite nicely, day to day, and then _wham_; he just showed up and expected her to pander to him. How many times had she resolved not to do it? And yet she did; Sherlock had a strange commanding presence, especially where she was concerned. She found it difficult to assert herself around him, not that she was usually very outgoing. "Which bodies, sorry?" she laughed nervously.

"Kenneth Grimes and Henry Wiggins," Jane explained blankly.

"Oh, you mean the Shakespeare murders? That's what some of the guys in forensics have called them," Molly said with a weak smile, walking over to the cabinets. "Oh! Has there been another?" she asked with a sudden thought.

"Yes, he's on his way," John replied. He could see Sherlock was growing impatient, and his friend was in one of those jittery excitable states.

"What are you looking for on these bodies?" Jane asked, pulling on some gloves and chucking the box at Sherlock, who caught it easily.

"Similarities," Sherlock replied, pulling on his own pair. "Something that ties all the victims together."

"Well, they're obviously connected," John said, retrieving some gloves for himself. "How did these two...die?" he asked carefully.

"Grimes was shot through the heart, and Wiggins was..." Jane paused tucking some stray hair behind her ears as she read the notes. "...decapitated. Continuing with the Shakespeare theme obviously. Macbeth was decapitated after he was killed in a fight and Othello shot himself through the chest."

"I'll need photographs of the other crime scenes," Sherlock said as Molly wheeled one of the bodies over to the table.

"I can get those sent over," Jane said, striding off. Molly looked at the men, who were occupied as they unzipped Wiggin's body bag, and quickly scampered after Jane.

"Jane!" she called out, running down one of the white corridors of St. Bartholomew's and catching up with the taller woman. They'd worked together for some time – Molly was usually stuck within the confines of St. Bart's morgue, but as part of the pathology team, Jane often stalked the corridors too. She couldn't exactly call them friends; for some reason Jane had a certain aloofness about her and while Molly found it very easy to talk to her when she was around, they never saw each other outside of work. Jane was a quiet sort of person, very involved in her work.

"Yes Molly?"

"I was wondering if you could give me some...you know...female advice? About relationships. I don't know who else to talk to about it really...I mean all my friends think I'm dumb after the whole Jim thing anyway..."

"Relationship advice?" Jane looked at little concerned, frowning as she logged onto a computer in the staff lounge. She'd text Donovan for the photographs and provided the policewoman didn't have her tongue wrapped around Anderson's, she'd send them pretty quickly. "Me?"

"Well, yeah, kind of. I mean, I know you're not dating anyone but you seem to understand Sher – I mean, men - and I was just wondering if you could give me some friendly advice."

Jane turned to finally look at the woman beside her and took in her wide eyes and innocent expression. She looked desperate and a little lost, with her weak smile. It was obvious who she wanted advice for, Jane thought with some discomfort, and she also knew it was a fruitless effort. Sherlock was no more interested in Molly than he was any woman. He wasn't exactly the relationship sort. But how to put that delicately?

"Look, I don't think I'm the best person to ask Molly," Jane said carefully, clicking onto her mail account and tapping in the password quickly. "What about Karen? In IT."

"I can't show my face in IT - did you know Jim quit? I can't get hold of him. It's like he's disappeared," Molly said, blushing; her chagrin was obvious. "I can't believe he was gay. I'm so stupid."

Jane sighed heavily, opening the email and ignoring the 'Freakette' at the start of it - Donovan's sense of humour was hit and miss at times, mostly miss. "You're not stupid." She took pity on her. "Ok, what's the problem?"

"Well, I like this guy," Molly started awkwardly. "Who can be sweet when he wants to be...but barely looks at me the rest of the time..."

"Then I would say..." Jane said slowly, waiting for the printer to kick in. "It doesn't really sound as if he's serious. You're too good for him. You should find a guy who's going to respect you for the...wonderful individual you are."

"Really?" Molly asked with a frown. "It's just sometimes it feels like he's flirting..."

"He's not. He's playing games with you to get what he wants," Jane said, taking the pictures from the printer with a frown.

"Oh..."

"Look," Jane said, realising she'd been a bit blunt. "Sherlock's all appeal and excitement – sweeping you up into weird situations - and he can be very charming..."

"Who said anything about Sherlock?" Molly interrupted nervously, blinking.

Jane gave her a knowing smile. "But he's not interested in people Molly. Not unless they're dead, or trying to commit a crime."

The girl blinked and looked slightly crestfallen, as if she had expected Jane to give her the magic formula to make Sherlock human. It was regrettable but the sooner Molly realised he wasn't - _anatomically_ perhaps, but Jane had never seen evidence in his mind or heart - the better it would be. People were disappointed when they expected anything else.

"Come on," she said, managing a soft voice, ushering her out of the computer room and smiling warmly. "Just let go of the idea. You have a lot to offer someone...romantically...and he's not the one, so don't waste your time on him. He only pushes you round. Besides, I bet he'd be a rubbish boyfriend. He'd probably...forget your birthday because he was trying to remember some ancient language lost in time."

Molly laughed at her words and put her hands in her lab coat pockets. "You know, you're right. I knew talking to you about it would make me feel better. I shouldn't let him push me round. I am a strong, independent woman." Jane nodded in agreement. "Coffee?" Molly added as an afterthought as she strolled away, back to the lab.

Jane smiled to herself as she nodded and followed her to give Sherlock the photographs. "Yeah. Black, two sugars please."


	3. Chapter Three: Calling Cards

Chapter Three – Calling Cards

"Got them," Jane said, waving the photos as she re-entered the lab. "There are photos of both crime scenes and a list of their belongings at the time of death. You know, cards, phones etc," she added, handing them to Sherlock who took them without thanks.

"Oh we're dealing with an artist," he mused as he flicked through them quickly, turning them from landscape to portrait occasionally with a critical eye and a strange smile.

"Sherlock," John said sternly, reprimanding him. "Three people are dead? At least have the decency to pretend not to be impressed."

"He's got a point," Jane threw over her shoulder. "The killer put a lot of thought and time into these murders. There's not a detail out of place."

John stared at them both with his arms folded. "Will you listen to yourselves? Getting excited just because someone decided to be bit creative as he bumped a few people off."

Neither looked particularly apologetic but thankfully Molly walked in with a tray of steaming mugs - she went to Jane first, who thanked her quietly and then to Sherlock, who took it wordlessly and wrinkled his nose after the first sip. Molly lowered her eyes when she approached the taller man, and seemed to look to Jane for reassurance. John took his tea with a smile and watched as Molly quietly shuffled off.

"Well, we're definitely looking for a man..." Sherlock said finally, placing the photos down. "No woman would have had the strength to decapitate a man of this size - not this neatly," he added, running a gloved finger along the clean cut of Henry Wiggin's body.

"No...and there was me working with the idea our killer was an English GCSE student who'd been pushed a _little_ too far," Jane retorted sarcastically, smiling at John who returned it. Sherlock ignored her.

"So Kenneth Grimes," John sighed, having moved to looking at the photographs with a grim expression. "His death is based around...Othello?"

"Yes - Othello is manipulated into believing his wife is cheating on him so he smothers her, but when he finds out he was tricked he kills himself by shooting himself through the heart," Jane explained, leaning against one of the bare slabs, waving a pen around as she spoke.

John nodded and looked at the photograph of the scene; a dingy room with a four poster bed against a wall, the victim lay on the ground with a tell tale blood stain in the left breast of his shirt. In the bed lay a mannequin, seemingly of a woman with a pillow beside her. The quote was on the wall again - _PUT OUT THE LIGHT, AND THEN PUT OUT THE LIGHT._"So Kenneth Grimes is somehow connected to that story?" John asked.

"Well that's the interesting part," Jane said. "Grimes' wife was smothered in her sleep but forensics cleared her husband."

"See what I mean about detail? A black man, with a wife who was killed in the same way as Desdemona? Our killer selected his victims carefully," Sherlock interjected energetically, almost gleeful. John didn't scold him this time; this was the way he worked, and he had to accept that. After mundane cases (mundane to Sherlock that was) this must be like a rich banquet of so many fantastical elements, he was spoilt for choice, gorging himself. And if John was truly honest, though he didn't relish in the deaths, the thrill of chasing a case was invigorating in comparison to ordinary life.

"And the other..." John started gesturing to Wiggins' body.

"Oh come on," Sherlock said sounding impatient. "You're telling me you didn't study Macbeth at school?" There was a stagnant pause as John bit his tongue angrily and Sherlock groaned in infuriation. "In a duel, Macbeth is run through with a sword and decapitated. O level stuff John, keep up."

"Actually we did Romeo and Juliet," the doctor replied coldly.

"Well, I suppose you'll be of some use should we wind up with a pair of 'star crossed lovers' on the table."

There was another uncomfortable pause as Sherlock moved around reading the list of belongings, not realising he'd offended anyone. "A notebook, wallet, pocket watch, chewing gum..." he murmured thoughtfully. For the next ten minutes, he analysed the bodies in perfect silence; no one dared speak or disturb him, Molly had long since disappeared, probably hiding in one of the labs, and Jane busied herself with writing up notes and looking at the photographs.

"What was the estimated time of death for the victims?" he asked finally.

"Grimes' was a week ago – around 3 am last Monday - and Wiggins was on Saturday evening at around ten. Why?"

He didn't respond but soon straightened up and pulled off his gloves, throwing them in the bin. "Surprisingly clean, but then if I'd have been called when it first happened I might have been able to get more."

"You heard Lestrade - the new superintendent isn't happy about your involvement in police cases. You're technically a civilian." Sherlock threw a scathing look at Jane but she missed it, or ignored it. "Besides, I looked at the bodies myself, and you can have detailed lists of what I found if you want."

"Detailed?" he scoffed under his breath.

Molly pushed open the door to the lab. "Jane, Lestrade's coming over to talk to you in a little while. He just rang to check you were still here." The pathologist nodded and replaced the lid on her pen.

"Did you get anything?" she asked Sherlock gesturing to the bodies.

"A little. Macbeth was a lorry or bus driver - his physique suggests fairly sedentary life; swollen ankles, overweight, so a lot of sitting, and his hands are calloused in the same places where lorry drivers typically repeatedly pull on the cords to tie in their cargo. The rather obvious tattoo on his biceps tells us he's Scottish - which of course makes sense, Macbeth was." John's eyes fell on the Scottish flag on Wiggins' arm. "Our Othello works with his hands, a tradesman, traces under his nails suggest something at the port - need to test the samples to be sure - but he's been moonlighting as a petty thief."

"What makes you say that?" Jane asked.

"The pocket watch," John murmured. "In his belongings."

Sherlock smiled. "Good - look at him - he wouldn't carry a pocket watch. He'd wear a cheap wrist watch."

"Maybe he stole it and the killer wanted revenge?"

"Then why not take it back? And why continue with the murders? No, the watch has no relevance to this. He took it and he kept it on his person. A strange coincidence but not my problem." Sherlock went to get his coat, prompting John to do the same. Jane turned on her heels as they went to leave.

"Don't forget your photos," she called out. Sherlock pulled on his scarf as he strolled towards her, glanced at them in her hand and paused.

"Just one thing," he said.

"What?"

"What business do you have with my brother?"

"Mycroft?" she said, looking confused. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on. You're not working for the government. Now you're just being deliberately stupid," Sherlock replied in a low voice, scoffing a little.

"Oh, I'm stupid am I?" Jane asked with a slight frown, folding her arms. Just because she understood Sherlock's nature didn't mean she had to put up with it. "Ok, let me just ask you a question - what day of the week is it?"

The room went quiet as John struggled to fight a smile; with one question she had summed up what he had tried to highlight - the isolated world in which his flat mate lived in. That kind of information - basic, _human _- wasn't something he held on to.

Sherlock stared past her with a blank expression, seemingly pausing while he searched his genius for an answer.

"That's irrelevant."

"Hmmm. I thought as much. And I'm stupid..."

"Not knowing the day of the week doesn't make me unintelligent, any more than knowing it makes you more so," he retorted, snatching the photos from her.

"I see what Doctor Watson meant when he said 'spectacularly ignorant'," Jane said, glancing at John over Sherlock's shoulder, ignoring him. He opened his mouth to reply - his blog's readership seemed to stretch further than he'd anticipated - but Sherlock interrupted.

"Monday."

"Hmmm?" Jane mused quizzically.

"The day of the week is Monday."

"Yes but did you _know_ that, like everyone else would, or did you remember that the first victim was killed a week ago, last Monday?"

"What does it matter? It might have escaped your shrewd mind Jane, but you couldn't exactly group me with the rest of the population," he said in low voice and with narrowed eyes.

"Why are you so sure its Mycroft?" she laughed, zipping up a body bag ready to put it away.

"Simple. I've already mentioned the cigars. That's the biggest clue - he has them specially blended. When I walked in the room back at Shepherd's Bush, you pulled your sleeve over a bracelet. Gold, not your usual style, you wear silver. So it must have been a gift. A gift you felt obligated to wear, even if you don't like it - you don't want to offend them. Perhaps they're family, but judging by the expense of the bracelet, not - someone important then. Not to mention gold jewellery being my brother's usual port of call for women's gifts. Your shirt," he added, pointing to the white blouse, which she looked at with a confused frown, "is designer. You work in forensics - blood splatter, other human fluids - hardly the place for a Dolce and Gabbana shirt. So you hadn't had chance to change before you were called out by Lestrade from an important meeting."

Jane raised an eyebrow. "I suppose I should be impressed."

"What does my brother want with you?" Sherlock probed.

"Maybe we were on a date," Jane said with a crooked smile and a slight shrug. Sherlock's smirk dropped and his expression grew into one of mild surprise as if the thought hadn't occurred to his reasoning mind. "Bye then," she said simply, turning her back on him. He blinked and turned to John who shrugged.

"Don't forget to email those notes," Sherlock commanded stiffly, walking out the door, and signifying that he had gotten the last word.

XXXXXX

_Earlier that day_

"Sir," a young concierge in a bow tie said, pulling aside a partition curtain to a secluded booth. "A woman is here to see you – she _claims_ at your request. She presented this sir," the man said in an inquisitive tone handing the man who was lounging in an armchair a small piece of card. The man examined it, and turned it over between his fingers, making a low noise at the back of his throat.

"Show her in," he commanded languidly, tucking the card in the inside of his jacket. "And bring us some water."

The concierge gave a small bow and paced away quietly, wondering what significance this woman had to be allowed an audience with such an important man. Of course, women frequented the club all the time – but as waitresses or as...entertainment. You didn't find many women seated amongst the gentlemen at a gentlemen's club as equals, and yet a simple piece of card had allowed her passage. He'd looked at it himself obviously, but it had no significance to him - just something scrawled in fountain pen onto the back of a business card.

He opened the door to the vestibule where she was waiting and gave her a polite smile. She took her hands from her trousers pockets in expectation, but he couldn't read any concern in her face; she had obviously never considered him the outcome of him coming back with a 'no'.

"Mr. Holmes will see you," the concierge said looking at the woman once more to suss her out. She was dressed plainly – a crisp white blouse, and a tailored two piece suit – but her face was engaging; she had bright, interesting eyes and a calm expression. All in all, not at all like the women he'd seen here before. "I'll take you to him."

"Wonderful," she replied, though he could tell whether she sounded pleased or not, she spoke so evenly. "If you'd be so kind."

She'd seen the inside of the Diogenes before a few times at different stages of her life; an exclusive club cofounded by the man she was about to meet, it lay in the heart of densely populated London but unless you were looking for it, you'd never find it. The entrance was a non-descript door – a closer eye would tell you it was a little finer than that, and its brass knocker always impeccably shone. It was a large building, much like the rest of them in the street, dating back to the 1700's, with high archetypal windows and imposing columns out the front. On its left was a bank, to its right some offices, all owned by the same people who poured money into the Diogenes.

The interior decor was obviously designed with comfort and luxury in mind; everything was visibly rich as well as to the touch, seeing as it was all of the best quality. But then the men that came to the club were used to the finer things in life and anything less was insulting. The woman trod quietly after the concierge as he led her up a wide mahogany staircase - all the wood within the club was the same dark brown - and around to the upper floors. Through the large doorway, the sound of soft music filled her ears, and she saw the club was surprisingly busy for the time of day. Various men she recognised, and some she didn't, sat at tables, lounging and talking quietly. They stared a little as she walked past, but quickly turned their attentions back to their newspapers or each other. The aroma of cigarettes and cigars in the air was thick; somehow the Diogenes had escaped the public smoking ban, but then again with so many of its members being influential within the government, it was hardly surprising at all.

The club could be split into two distinct areas; the social room, a single floor where she now found herself now, and the private quarters, where members of the club went simply for the privilege of peace and quiet. In that area, no one spoke to anyone else and music was prohibited. Those rooms were above these and heavily soundproofed. It was a novel idea, and it was certainly the only place in London a respectable man could go and pay to have the luxury of reading quietly or being alone in his thoughts.

The concierge lead her to a secluded area a little further from the tables - to a dark crimson velvet curtain that was tied back with a golden cord - and gestured her to step inside. It was fairly small, divided from the open space where everyone else sat - a kind cubby hole - with two sturdy armchairs seated around a table.

She stepped inside, ducking her head a little so not to hit the curtain and stood before the man already sat there. He was smoking a cigar which he lazily rolled in his fingers.

"You're a difficult woman to get hold of Jane," he said with a degree of amusement in his clipped voice, not looking at her but instead looking at his cigar. "But I see you got my message."

"I do have a job, Mr. Holmes," she smiled politely. "I can't always come at your beck and call, not if you want our meetings to be discreet. People might start to talk."

"Quite. How clever of you seeing as discretion is exactly what I'm looking for," Mycroft Holmes mused. "Have a seat."

The concierge returned with a jug full of iced water as she made herself comfortable in the chair opposite him. Setting it down, he nodded as Mycroft gave him the signal to make sure they weren't disturbed.

"It's stopped raining finally," he said conversationally, looking out past the curtain at the many faces. Jane didn't say a word; it _had_ stopped raining and she knew he had read it in her face, clothes and stature as she walked in, as well as innumerable other pieces of information. She was as used to Mycroft's observational powers as she was his brother's and while most considered the older brother to have a superior mind, she had always thought it was Sherlock's ability to chase after a mystery that made him the more capable. Though there was no doubt that Mycroft could solve the same problems as his brother if the case were brought to him, he was one of the laziest men Jane had ever met - he constantly had someone else to do his 'legwork'. She supposed that's why she was here, to act as his physical aid. She had to take great pain around both Holmes brothers to conceal various aspects of herself that might be revealing, but it was difficult; they truly were smart.

"Yes, but it'll start again soon," she replied, examining her watch. She wasn't due at St. Bart's for another hour - plenty of time. "But I don't suppose for a second you brought me here to talk about the weather."

"No," he said slowly, with an appreciative expression as if it were comforting to talk to someone that wasn't an idiot. "Wonderfully deduced. I'm in need of your valuable services."

"Why don't you ask your brother?" she said straight away with a quiet smile.

Mycroft gave her a reproachful look coupled with a smirk. "You know full well my brother won't work for me unless it suits him, which this would not. Besides, I require your particular talents."

Jane sat back and folded her arms. "Ok, I'm listening."

"I need you to procure something for me," he explained with a frown, leaning forward to stub out his cigar in the ashtray. "It's something of the utmost importance and delicacy, but I know your penchant for situations of this nature so naturally I thought of you when the problem first arose."

"My father always said if you're good at something, don't do it for free."

"Indeed," Mycroft smiled.

"I'm sorry to be blunt," the woman said softly, leaning forward and placing her arms on the table, "but you'll understand that I'm a little wary. How do I know you'll keep your promise after I've done what you've asked?"

"You're not very trusting are you?"

"I tend not to be," Jane admitted calmly. "I've known far too many people."

"But you're still here aren't you? I could have had you 'carted away' at anytime," the man said, with a faint trace of amusement in his tone.

Jane didn't say anything so Mycroft reached inside his jacket - a fine dark grey, part of a three piece - and pulled out the piece of card she had used to gain access to the club.

"This is my promise," he said clearly, sliding the card across the table. She picked it up and held it in front of her - a simple, sturdy piece of card, on one side were the words 'Mycroft Holmes' in an elegant golden typeface and his contact details. On the other were two words: _Chez Gerard_. A challenge - that was what this card signified. Before the man's first commission that he charged her with, he had asked for a test – some kind of proof that she could deliver what he had heard she could. He had expected something on a larger scale; perhaps he would have been less surprised if she had handed him the Crown Jewels. Jane had taken the piece of card from the desk in the study of Mycroft Manor – his country home. The manor was one of the few places where he had security installed - tight security at that - and so when she produced something that could only come from a room that should have been private and protected, he had naturally been both convinced and astounded. It was nothing of importance or value; the room was filled with documents that could have destroyed the British government twice over, or brought her great leverage financially. And yet she only took something trivial: a business card he had used as scrap paper to jot down the name of a restaurant he was going to visit.

It struck deep – it was an intimate intrusion – far more impressive than presenting him with jewels. After all, real power came with being able to strike fear into another person's heart. Jane had done just that for an instant by making him feel unsafe. And it had proved her beyond all reasonable doubt to be exactly the kind of tradesperson Mycroft needed from time to time. He had come to admire her; she was a singular woman, unlike any he'd met before. And so he had come to call on her from time to time when he needed her talents. Only a few days before, she had found an envelope on her doorstep with the card inside – it could only be from him. He had summoned her and here she was.

Mycroft watched a smile creep onto her face; the fact she had taken something from him without detection was an indication of her talents. The fact she had taken nothing that could do any damage, or benefit her, was an indication of her character. "You're far too valuable to lock away," he said laughing softly.

"What do you need from me?" Jane asked.

"There's a man who was involved in some commissions for the secret services. Strictly under the table of course," Mycroft added with a suggestive smirk. Jane raised an eyebrow – 'under the table' was a euphemism for underhanded, corrupt deeds that meant if they went badly, there was nothing official to tie MI5 to them and so they could wash their hands clean. "During one of these assignments, he decided to take an item of importance. A pocket watch. I'd like you to retrieve it for me."

"Where can I find it?"

"I believe your department are working on a couple of murders at the moment that are thematically linked to William Shakespeare?" Jane didn't ask how he knew but nodded instead. "You'll find the watch amongst the first victim's belongings."

"Kenneth Grimes - our Othello. What a coincidence," she said with a frown – there weren't many coincidences these days. "Is this connected to his murder? Because if so I'll have to tell Lestrade..."

"Your sense of moral justice is touching, if not a little uncharacteristic," Mycroft interrupted. "But his death had nothing to do with us. No, that was an unhappy coincidence. The two aren't related."

"Well, I need time. I can't just take it, especially seeing as the investigation is ongoing..."

Mycroft raised a hand to interrupt. "I'm comfortable with whatever your method entails; it's just imperative it is returned. And I warn you," he added, lifting his umbrella cane that he always carried – that until now it had been propped against the chair – and turned it around in his hand to examine it, "should you take a liking to the watch, I will know it's a fake."

Jane listened carefully to his words and said nothing for a while, only blinking. "You're not very trusting are you?"

To her surprise, Mycroft let out a short laugh and returned to the same self assured, serene smile he'd worn for most of their meeting. "No...To quote someone I know, I've known far too many people."

Jane cocked her head a little in agreement. "Here's _my _promise," she said sliding the card back to him. "You were home that weekend - I could have killed you in your bed, or taken any number of things from your home. I didn't."

Mycroft stared at the card as his mouth twisted into a smile. "You're not a killer Jane."

She opened her mouth to respond when he phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out apologetically and raised a hand to halt their conversation. "Adler," she answered. "No, I'm on the other side of town. I just about to head to St. Bart's," she lied smoothly. Mycroft watched her as she spoke confidently, not a note of her voice betraying anything. "Another one? Right, I'm on my way," she said before hanging up and slipping the phone back into her pocket.

"Trouble?" Mycroft asked, rising from his chair.

"Duty calls - another of these Shakespeare murders. Lestrade says he's going to have to call your brother in. It's ok if I go?" she added, rising.

"Of course," Mycroft said, reaching inside his jacket once more. "But before you do, there was one more thing," he said, handing her a dark thin oblong box. She stared at it for a moment with a confused expression.

"I don't accept gifts," Jane replied with a wave of the hand. "The usual sum will do."

"Your birthday," Mycroft said slowly, emphasising every syllable with wide eyes. "Take it. Just a small token."

Jane opened the box and smiled appreciatively at the sight of gold. Her birthday had been two days ago and had passed without much celebration. But of course he would have known. Mycroft continued as she fiddled with the clasp, leaning upon his cane nonchalantly. "I'd be particularly grateful if you could do your work in such a way as to not alert my brother, if he's going to be frequent presence. He is regrettably rather good at spotting people acting out of the ordinary and he can be rather tenacious when it comes to unearthing the truth. This is one particular case I'd rather he kept out of. I don't doubt he'll be able to sussing out where you've been this afternoon..."

"Mycroft," Jane interrupted, handing the gift box back to him with a confident smile. "I know how to handle your brother. He won't see any more than I want him to."


	4. Chapter Four: Poison and Daggers

Chapter Four – Poison and Daggers

"So," John started as they walked out of the hospital and straight into the cool night air. It was late; time seemed to slip away while they were working and he often became disorientated as to what time of day it actually was. He glanced at his watch - half nine - all he could think about was how he hadn't managed one mouthful of Mrs. Hudson's pasta bake before he'd got caught up in another Sherlock whirlwind of excitement, and he was starving. "Jane and your brother eh?"

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock answered, hailing a taxi and bunching his coat up around him. "For whatever reason they met up it certainly wasn't to do with romance. At least not on Jane's side. Her body isn't displaying any of the evidence of a new found romance; no flushed cheeks, no dilated pupils when I mention Mycroft. Plus, she'd made an effort with the shirt, but no perfume or extra make up."

"Oh come on," John smiled as a black cab pulled up. "Budding office romance, or something like it. Jane seems like a nice girl, and your brother's single right?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied climbing in. "But he doesn't _date. _And Mycroft is not Jane's type; haven't you noticed she's a little bit low key, keeps to herself? A flashy government man would hardly suit her - he's away all hours, at meetings and his club, and she wants stability and dependence. The whole picket fence shebang." He leant forward to talk to the cab driver. "Baker Street please."

"Sherlock, you can't always put people into boxes, and there's the age old adage that says 'opposites attract'. Maybe in your world they're not a match, but people who don't seem suited work out all the time," the doctor said, marvelling at the fact that for a man who could read them so well, Sherlock would never understand people at all.

"I beg to differ. People are notoriously easy to categorise. How on earth do you think I work if I can't look at someone and say 'you're that type of person'?" Sherlock retorted, sounding a little irritated.

"I think you're wrong. Not everyone's as predictable as you make out. What about Moriarty? You didn't figure out it was Jim."

He knew he'd taken a low blow with that one as he watched Sherlock's jaw clench and head move to look out of the window. "That was an exception."

"Well then; couldn't Jane be?"

Sherlock seemed to be amused by that. "Absolutely not."

"You and women..." John muttered. He couldn't exactly describe Sherlock as an out and out misogynist, but he certainly held a rather dim view of the opposite sex. Predictable, and their crimes were nearly always tied to an intense emotion which was always foolhardy. It made you clumsy and that's why so many of them got caught. Not that he was ever impolite or brutish towards them - whenever they had a female client come and ask Sherlock to do a case, he was always quite the gentlemen in front of them, which surprised John. His argument was that he had never met a woman who surprised him, or who wasn't easily readable, and until he did he would continue to view them in that way. Mind you, looking at the women in Sherlock's life, it was hardly surprising he didn't value them; there was Sally Donovan at Scotland Yard, Mrs. Hudson and Molly. None of them particularly shone for their sex. "Well if it wasn't a date, then what was it? Why'd they meet?"

Sherlock glanced at him. "I've not figured that out yet. But the problem at hand is our Shakespeare murder, so my brother's meeting with a Scotland Yard pathologist will have to wait. He probably offered to pay her to spy on me, like he did you. He's not terribly original. As if she'd take it."

John paused thoughtfully and frowned at the man. "Sherlock, what happens when the killer runs out of deaths to copy? Not all the plays were tragedies."

Sherlock didn't answer at first, but just before he did, a strange smile crept across his mouth. "Then we'll see if this is about Shakespeare, or just about murder."

XXXXXX

London was a hot bed of possible Romeo's and Juliet's, he marvelled as he strolled down the street, bunching his jacket around him. There seemed to be couples everywhere for him to choose from, but none of them quite fit his plan. The boy and girl kissing on the bench were too loose; they hadn't been dating long, and he could tell that their relationship wasn't about longevity, it was about sex. No, his Romeo and Juliet needed to be the real deal – a real pair of star crossed lovers. No need to fret. Fate had been obliging so far. They would turn up. He only had to be patient.

Othello and Macbeth had gone off rather nicely, and he'd been deeply satisfied with his Hamlet. It was truly a thing of great artistry when the artist could step back and be pleased with his work. No flaws; at first he might have been a little clumsy, but the mistakes were smoothed out each time. Hamlet had been particularly elegant. And how Hamlet had cried. He couldn't deny how comforting it had been to get a reaction. Hadn't he delivered his lines so well? The camera had been a nice touch. Even he could admit that it must have been suitably ominous. Oh to be a fly on the wall, or a policemen. Had they been horrified?

And yet however pleased he was, he knew he could be better. The next would prove that.

The plan would take some fine tuning. A double role in the scene he had to pan out, and a far more intricate murder. Poison and daggers. Once he'd found his players, it would take a few days to set it all out. But that was the fun part. Almost like directing.

"Kate – relax," a boy with a shaved head said as he passed him, the words catching on his ears. "Your dad's too busy with that court case to give a stuff who you're with."

"Yeah," the lavender blonde sighed as they paused outside the deli shop. She wrapped her arms around the boy's waist and squeezed him tight with a worried look. "Knowing him, he'll have sent someone to spy on me though!"

He was aware he'd stopped too, pretending to be interested in a magazine stand but the words on the covers were blurred as he listened to the couple.

"I don't care," the boy said softly. "I love you. And we live in London; we can make a life for ourselves doing whatever we want. Stuff your Dad, and stuff my Mum! We don't need them, right?"

"Right," she said with a smile, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss her boyfriend on the lips. "Come on, I'm starving."

Perfect. They sounded perfect. Parents that didn't approve and young love's dream. Fate had been kind once again. He waited until they were a good few feet ahead of him, and then he replaced the magazine in the rack and began to follow them.

_Poison and daggers_, he thought to himself.

XXXXXX

"Oh, hi," Jane smiled as Lestrade pushed open the door to the lab where she had the belongings of Kenneth Grimes' stretched out across a table. She eyed the grey haired man up and down, taking in his jacket, loosened tie and tired expression. "Molly said you were on your way."

"Yeah, I just wanted to have a word about the case," he said rubbing his jaw wearily. "You got anything more from the victim's belongings?"

"Nothing much," Jane said blankly. "I was going to send the notes over - you didn't have to come all this way."

Lestrade gave her a weak smile. "Just passing." Jane concealed the urge to raise an eyebrow; she doubted that very much, seeing as Scotland Yard was nowhere near St. Bart's. "Actually, while I'm here, what did Sherlock say about the new vic?"

"That he was a military man with a guilty conscience," she said going over to the laptop to type something in. "I wrote it all down."

"Is this it?" he asked pointing to a few sheets of notes. She looked at them calmly and shook her head, as she gathered them. They were personal notes - detailed work on Kenneth Grimes' watch, not that Lestrade would have noticed. She could have probably walked into the room in a stripy shirt, a mask and bag labelled 'SWAG' and he wouldn't have paid her much dues. He wasn't the brightest of men even though he was the Golden Boy of the Met, but he was nice enough. A real family man - if he hadn't have been married to the job for twenty years. It was obvious to everyone that he liked Jane a lot; he valued her opinion, took her advice, and went out of his way to talk to her, much to Donovan's amusement, who ribbed Jane about it as soon as Lestrade's back was turned. She was fond of him in a way – he was one of the few people she worked with she actually liked.

"Here," she said handing him the list of things she had scribbled down that Sherlock had mentioned earlier and returned to her work, bending down a little to work at her laptop. Lestrade seemed to hover for a moment, the file wrapped close to his chest, waiting to ask something. Jane rolled her eyes before looking over her shoulder with an expectant smile. "Was there something else Greg?" she asked.

"You do know it's nearly ten o clock," he said, staring hard at her. She glanced at the clock on the wall and then back to his face.

"So it is," she said blankly. "You didn't make it to Detective Inspector for no reason then," she teased lightly.

"Aren't you packing up?"

Jane, straightening up, folded her arms. "Did you have a point?"

Lestrade rubbed his jaw again. "Jane it's late. This can wait til the morning at least - we've got a whole bleeding team that can work on it. Give yourself a break," he said firmly before pausing awkwardly. He was stuck in a bizarre limbo; as her boss he had authority, which meant she had to do as he said, but as a man who found her attractive he didn't want to play that card.

"I've got to finish these notes first," she protested with a resolute tone. He sighed and reached inside his jacket.

"Alright. Have it your way. Can't accuse you of not working hard. While I remember, this came for you earlier," he said gruffly, handing her an envelope. On the front she could read her name - typed, not written - but there were no other distinguishing features. Jane murmured some thanks and turned it over, carefully pulling the flap up on the envelope as Lestrade headed for the door. As he reached it, he turned back to face her.

"Look," he started, scratching the back of his head, "Some of us are going out for a drink in a bit, and you'll probably say no but..."

"I'll come," Jane said abruptly, still hunched over the computer, holding the envelope he'd handed her. He couldn't see her face but she sounded even and calm.

"You what?" Lestrade replied with a frown, laughing a little.

"You were asking me weren't you?" she asked, spinning around with the envelope in hand, feigning embarrassment. Lestrade stared at her with wide eyes.

"What – oh, yeah, yeah I was," he said. In truth he'd expected her to say no; she usually did, largely because Sally Donovan was always there, and he knew the two didn't exactly have the greatest of working relationships. Jane didn't really integrate with her colleagues - oh she was liked and respected by most of them, after all she wasn't a horrible person - but she wasn't particularly good at letting loose. He supposed that was why he liked her; she was a no fuss kind of girl, completely at ease with herself, not really perturbed by what others thought of her. She was smart too - one of the only people he knew that could understand Sherlock when he was going full speed, not that the consulting detective paid that much heed. Lestrade did though, and it was useful having her around to break it all down for him afterwards.

"So you're coming then?" he repeated, still waiting for a refusal. "You just said you were going to stay."

She flashed him a wide smile, and cast her eyes at the envelope. "Yeah - this Shakespeare stuff's got me wound up all tight," she said dismissively. "I was being stupid. Something to take my mind off it would do me good."

Lestrade nodded and gave her a friendly smile. "We're meeting at the Feathers, so see you there." The Feathers was a pub only a short walk from New Scotland Yard - a real pub, with ale and hearty food. It had served policemen for years, and stayed open specifically for those that finished late and needed a stiff drink in a friendly environment to remind themselves of the good in the world, the ordinary things. In The Feathers, people weren't murderers. Or at least, the Met liked to pretend they weren't. It was one of their safe havens.

"Do you mind waiting and we could get a cab?" Jane said slowly, wrinkling her nose. "I won't be long - I'll pack these away."

"Er - sure," Lestrade said slowly, raising his eyebrows in surprise. That was a turn for the books; while he'd always liked Jane, she could be a bit frosty, a bit of a lone ranger, and now she was going with him in the cab? If she drank a lot, he could be on to a winner. The thought made him smile to himself. "I'll wait outside shall I?"

The brunette nodded and made towards the table to carefully replace everything in its bag, still holding her envelope, and Lestrade left the room. Jane watched him go, and once he was all the way down the corridor and out of sight, she let out a breath she'd been holding in and leant against the table to calm herself. She'd planned on staying the lab all night; she'd not forgotten Mycroft's charge, and she needed to work quickly before the case was either solved or swarming with other pathologists. But the envelope had changed her mind. Another calling card. And suddenly she had needed to feel safe, and be with other people, no matter how much she hated Anderson and Donovan. Pulling out the small card from inside the envelope to check she hadn't misread it, she sighed deeply and pulled a lighter from her work bag to burn it and the envelope it had arrived in.


	5. Chapter Five: In Fair Verona

_Hello everyone – this is the last prewritten chapter, so the updates won't be as quick. Thanks to __**Arisprite**__ and __**Agent ERA **__for their kind reviews so far!_

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Chapter Five - In Fair Verona

"Nothing," John said with a frown, switching off the television the following evening. Sherlock was sat in the chair opposite with a book - a cloth bound battered edition of Shakespeare's entire works. He'd pulled it off the shelf as soon as they'd arrived home the night before and had been reading it ever since. John had left to go to the clinic that morning and when he returned, found him sat in the same place, in the same position, only a good third of the way further through the book.

"What's that?" Sherlock murmured, with one finger to his lip pensively.

"There's nothing on the news about these murders."

"No, I should imagine not. Lestrade will schedule a press release soon though. The best thing to do when faced with the prospect of a particularly tricky serial killer is to not alarm the general public. People tend to panic," he added with a little curtness to his tone that bordered on disdain. He flipped over the page he was reading and continued to scan the page.

John shook his head emphatically. "But people need to know..."

"Know what John?" Sherlock asked, shutting the book with a thud as he interrupted the other man. "What can we tell them? We know nothing about our killer - except for the fact he's a fan, an expert even, of William Shakespeare and how many in people in this city can make claim to that? There's little sense in terrifying the inhabitants of London - they'd only look over their shoulder and distrust anyone that had rudimentary knowledge of English Literature. Lestrade knows that, and that's why he'll only tell people when it's necessary to."

John exhaled a deep breath, biting his tongue. As loathed as he was to admit it, Sherlock had a point, though it betrayed every moral idea he had in him. "How's the reading?" he asked changing the subject.

"I'd forgotten how much I hated Macbeth," Sherlock muttered, reopening his book.

"Is there anything I can do?" John offered.

"Yes..." Sherlock paused and looked up. "Research the death of Grimes' wife for me. I think it was a few years ago. It'd be good to get the media's view of the case, as well as the police's. Speaking of," he murmured, pulling his phone out, and laying it on the arm of the chair. "No word from Jane on those notes." He sounded disgruntled at the idea someone hadn't jumped when he asked them to.

John went to grab his laptop and returned to the chair with it. When he opened it and typed in his password, he frowned at the desktop background. It had been changed from the picture he'd had - one of him and Sarah on a date - to a Windows default one - a dark blue screen with minimal detail. He didn't have to look far for the culprit; his laptop never left the flat and no one else would be so bold.

"Did you change my background?" he asked Sherlock, already knowing the answer but giving him a curious look anyway.

"Hmm? Oh, yes."

John put his tongue in his cheek to control his temper. "Why?"

"Your other picture was nauseating. Far too distracting," Sherlock explained, still reading. "Every time I closed something, I had to look at it."

"Perhaps you might not find it so distracting if you used your own computer instead of mine - and how did you get on? I've been changing my password weekly." He'd been deliberately trying to come up ones that wouldn't be so obvious in a vain attempt to stop the massive breach of privacy.

Sherlock looked up with a quick smile. "I know - you have a one track mind."

John huffed and went to change it yet again; fine, if Sherlock insisted on playing Mr. Clever, then he'd pick the most random object in the room that he could..._ah, that'd do_, he thought as he began to type.

"Lampshade? John, honestly."

"I shouldn't have to do this!" John snapped haughtily. "Just...stay away from my computer, alright?"

Sherlock pulled a smug face. "Fine."

John closed his eyes briefly as regained his cool and clicked onto the internet browser to begin his research. Privacy meant nothing to Sherlock, but then he spent so much of his life invading other people's on the quest for truth, he just didn't know how to behave any other way. It was just another aspect of the childlike personality he had; the lack of boundaries, his needs and wants before anyone else's. John supposed, however, that just looking at someone was an insight into the private for Sherlock, seeing as he saw so much that no one else saw.

"This article's from 2007 - _Lisa Grimes, aged thirty two, was found smothered in her home on the 3rd October. Kenneth Grimes, the deceased's husband, was released from police questioning today, after having been cleared of being in the city at the time. Her body was discovered by her sister, Janet Holland, in the morning..." _John read.

"Anything else?"

John saved the page and moved on. He frowned as he read. "This site says before her death she worked at the London Library, on St James' Square as a -"

Sherlock barely glanced up as he interrupted once again. "As a Shakespearian consultant - she was an expert on the man and his works."

"Yeah that's - hang on, why am I researching this? Have you already looked this up?" he didn't need Sherlock to patronise him by giving him a purpose, like some kind of annoying child that you shoved up the kitchen table with some colouring pencils and a book. Especially not if he was simply a foil for Sherlock's ego, giving the other man a chance to show off.

"No. Lucky guess, when you mentioned the library. Too much of a coincidence. We need to contact Lestrade. Lisa Grimes is our first victim, not her husband. She's the start of it all."

"So is she Desdemona still?" John asked.

"I need to see the photos of the crime scene to be sure, but I'd wager she was just a spur of the moment killing - the murder that sparked off the others. He realised the poeticism of her death, and the potential for more. But he waited..." Sherlock picked up his phone and began to text. "Lestrade's not going to be pleased - he hates reopening cold cases."

"Even if it means saving innocent lives?" John retorted, unable to bite back his morals that time. Sherlock gave him a smirk.

"Too much paperwork," he replied. "What time is it?" he asked as he tapped away.

"Nearly midnight. Why?"

Sherlock pulled a face as he pocketed his phone. "Useless. Can't go to the library. Can't question family or friends."

"We could always go to bed?" John yawned. Sherlock looked into the fireplace, where there was a small dying fire (lit by John - Sherlock appreciated the warmth but of course would never venture to do it himself) and seemed to sneer.

"Can't sleep," he murmured. John rolled his eyes.

"Well I can, so I'm going to bed. I suppose you'd be happier if the killer struck again, to give you something to do," he laughed rising from his armchair. Sherlock wouldn't find any rest with a case on his brain. Just as John went to the door to go upstairs, Sherlock's phone rang in his pocket. The doctor froze and turned expectantly.

"It'll just be Lestrade replying to my text," Sherlock said as he fished it out. "Go sleep if you want."

But John didn't move.

"Holmes," Sherlock shot down the phone as he answered. "You don't say? Another murder." He glanced up at John who had sub consciously sucked in a breath in anticipation of the worst news. He gave him a look, scanning his expression. "We'll be there," he said as he hung up. John didn't get angry at the assumption; he grabbed his coat as Sherlock did and headed down the stairs to face the cold London air.

XXXXXX

"You're chipper," Sally Donovan sniped at Sherlock as he strolled towards the church that the police cars were all gathered outside. She had been leaning against a car with her hood up - in fact, most of the people outside were bundled up against the weather. There had been a bad patch of solid rain lately, with some areas being flooded, but it had lessened to a constant barrage of icy mist, moisture that soaked you after seconds of walking through it. It was cold enough to see your own breath projected in front of you, and John scolded himself for not grabbing his scarf or gloves. Sherlock seemed unperturbed by the weather; though he wore his leather gloves and had wrapped the blue scarf around his neck shortly after Baker Street, he seemed unresponsive to it, and certainly wouldn't mention it.

"Sally - what a pleasure," Sherlock grinned. "They told me they were considering firing you, but I guess they took pity on you."

"Laugh it up Freak," she said, losing her smirk. "I bet you're loving this," she added gesturing to the church behind her.

"Which Shakespeare is it?" Sherlock asked, ignoring her as he looked up at the church, pulling off his gloves - most likely because he intended to pull on some forensic gloves in a moment.

"Romeo and Juliet," she sighed, folding her arms as she lifted the tape for them to go through to Lestrade. John turned his head to Sherlock with a look. "But be warned - it's freezing down there, even more than up here."

"Does Anderson know yet?" Sherlock asked cryptically, pausing as he spoke, sniffing a little.

Sally shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and frowned. "What?" she laughed nervously, glancing from Sherlock to a confused John.

"You're nearly twelve weeks pregnant," Sherlock declared matter of factly. Sally snapped out of her relaxed pose and waved an arm.

"Keep your voice down!" she hissed, eyes darting frantically to see if Anderson was around, which he wasn't. John noticed Sherlock's amused smirk and rolled his eyes. "Just...keep your thoughts to yourself." She tapped her foot in an irritated way before bending her head towards him. "How the hell did you figure out I was pregnant?"

The man cocked an eyebrow. "You're already wearing clothes that are bigger than necessary, you're standing as far away from that takeaway van as you humanly can, and you have a telltale retching rash under each of your eyes from repeatedly vomiting, which only occurs in the first trimester. Don't worry - I doubt anyone else has noticed."

Sally stuck her tongue in her cheek in an attempt to mask her anxiety. "Just keep your mouth shut ok. It's none of your business, and you're not to say a word to anyone!" She spat her words at him through her teeth.

"I'm just speaking out of concern for a colleague," Sherlock said. "After all, a woman of your condition shouldn't be out at this hour. And of course, there's the problem that Anderson's wife won't be in Moscow forever." She looked fit to strangle him so he simply smiled and turned his back on her. "Goodnight Sally."

John opened his mouth to say something but she glowered him. "Just bugger off."

Sherlock strode on, his coat flapping out behind him, creating a striking silhouette against the fluorescent policemen and their white cars. "Why do I get the feeling you enjoyed that?" John said reproachfully as he caught up with him. Sherlock laughed quietly but didn't respond.

"So..._Romeo and Juliet. _I'll expect I'll be of some bloody use now," John couldn't resist saying to the man cheerfully. Sherlock looked down at him with a smirk.

"You're very useful," he retorted in an uncharacteristic compliment, staring ahead. "An invaluable companion."

Lestrade spotted them and beckoned them over, before John could respond to Sherlock's kind words. "Thanks for coming," Lestrade said, burying his chin into his scarf, shivering. "I've already got people digging up Lisa's Grimes' murder investigation for you. You should have the notes within the hour, if you honestly believe that it's part of this investigation."

John spotted Jane in forensic scrubs, handing another CSI a cup of something hot. She looked very cold and tired - her hair was pulled back from her face apart from her fringe, and when she saw him she gave him a weak smile, which he returned.

"Anderson's on, but Jane'll take you down if you want - Jane!" Lestrade called out. She jogged over obligingly.

"Take Sherlock and John down - I've got a hundred things to do up here," he commanded with an apologetic expression. She nodded and gestured for the men to follow her, past more yellow tape, more policemen, and inside the church.

As she lead them through the chapel wordlessly, John noticed the air get cooler; perhaps even more so because he knew that below him in the crypts of the church two people lay dead. The sounds of the people outside quietened, and all that sounded was the echoing of footsteps, murmurs and the occasional flash of a camera.

"We got the call a couple of hours ago," Jane explained as they stormed down the stairs to the basement of the church. St Bride's had been there for centuries; the crypts originally dated back to medieval times, even though the church above them on Fleet Street had been rebuilt thanks to the bombings during World War II. "Double murder...obviously. Victims are in their early twenties. The church has been undergoing some renovations - plumbing, rewiring etc - and so there wasn't anyone around and it was fairly easy to access."

They rounded a corner, ducking their heads to avoid the low stone arches. Down another dim corridor, John could see bright lights streaming out and the flash of more blue - the forensics team at work. Suddenly, a dark haired man with a large nose stepped out of the doorway with a look of contempt at the sight of Sherlock, and folded his arms. Anderson and Sherlock did not get along in any circumstances - the detective thought the CSI was beyond the term 'idiot', and Anderson resented the man's presence and the force's need for him in the first place. Jane carried on walking even though the pale man had stopped in the breadth of the corridor.

"I'm not finished," he stated, staring pointedly at Jane, deliberately ignoring Sherlock who was smiling widely at him. "You can't just bring him in to a crime scene, a particularly delicate one, and let him -"

"Just...shut up," she snapped pushing past him with an irritated growl. "Lestrade let him in. You can argue with _him_ about it you want but in the mean time, get out of the way Anderson."

Anderson's mouth gaped as they all brushed past, leaving him standing there with his arms in the air impotently. "I'm supposed to be heading the team this time Adler! Not you..."

"Short fuse this evening Jane?" Sherlock murmured behind her.

She ignored him, and Anderson - whose voice trailed off into a curse as he stormed away to the surface. John shivered as they entered the main crypt - a large room with low ceilings, filled with CSI's and lights. It smelt of death - a smell he was sadly accustomed to in the Army - but there was something else lingering in the air; a faint scent of flowers. "Everyone out please," Jane said impatiently, gesturing to the door and waving John and Sherlock aside so they could leave. "Detective Inspector Lestrade's orders."

They all murmured but went away quickly, with very little fuss. They were used to the strange angular man with dark hair storming into the crime scene, even if they didn't know why he came. Jane sighed and brushed her hair out of her face, gesturing for Sherlock and John to step inside and start their work. John swallowed when he saw the scene; the two victims were side by side on top of a stone slab - the boy looked as if he were sleeping but the girl was covered in a dark red stain, which only made her pallid skin more white. They were young as Jane had said; the girl was a bottle blonde and in the combination of harsh forensic light and flickering candles she looked no more than a child. Which, John realised with a shudder, was probably what the killer had wanted.

But the most disturbing picture in the scene was the message that lay on the floor - John suddenly noticed what it was that had made the ancient tomb smell like flowers; dozens of rose heads laid out elaborately into the printed words _THESE VIOLENT DELIGHTS HAVE VIOLENT ENDS._

"A rose, by any other name..." Sherlock said reading the message, and bending down to touch a flower. "So intricate. Everything is planned to the finest detail."

Jane shivered and rubbed her arms. It was late and very cold; as true as it was, she didn't have time for Sherlock to be impressed by the killer. "Do you want to make a start?" she said, noting how tired she sound - she quite literally didn't have the energy to conceal it from him.

"You're not wearing the bracelet Mycroft got you," Sherlock murmured softly, not looking at Jane but instead looking around the dingy room with interest.

She unfolded her arms and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Now's not the time Sherlock. You can wow me with your powers of observation later, but right now I'd really like it if you put your investigative genius into telling me why there's two more dead bodies in front of me."

"Quite right," he said cheerily, snapping round so his coat flared out. "Get me some gloves," he ordered, and John and Jane exchanged a glance as if to ask which one of them he meant. In the end, Jane sighed and walked over with a box, from which Sherlock took two gloves, pulling them on wordlessly. She offered them to John who smiled his thanks and asked her quietly how she'd been but Sherlock hushed them both impatiently. Jane rolled her eyes and smiled at John all the same, but didn't speak.

He took five minutes to examine both bodies, only making the occasional 'hmmm' at the back of his throat as he moved around with his magnifying glass, pulling things from their pockets and turning them over in his hand. This was the point when John felt utterly useless, that was until Sherlock beckoned him over to determine a cause of death. To be truthful, he was glad when he did; the eeriness of the crypt and the silence that Sherlock demanded for his work made him feel uncomfortable and his eyes kept drifting back to the rose message.

"Well, her COD is easy enough - stab wound to the heart," John said grimly. "It's deep but not wide...possibly a kitchen knife..."

"Or a dagger," Jane interjected. "'Oh happy dagger...' - that's how Juliet kills herself in the end." Sherlock nodded, before looking back to John who was leaning over the boy.

"This is more difficult - without proper testing, I can't be certain..."

"Come on John," Sherlock interrupted with a smirk. "You _know _what it is."

John looked up and shrugged his shoulders. "Alright, a type of poison then. But I don't know what. He didn't choke on his own vomit - maybe a fatal dose of a narcotic."

Sherlock pointed from the boy to the girl. "Jake Philips and Kate Millard. Both students attended Kingston University. The girl's student ID says her name is Kate, but she wears a J around her neck on a silver chain, along with a heart pendant. Not very expensive but still sterling silver. We know his name is Jake - so it's a token of love - they're boyfriend and girlfriend. Fairly logical conclusion anyway seeing as the killer picked them for his Romeo and Juliet. Their phones -"

"Their phones?" John echoed, remembering the amount of detail that Sherlock had gleaned just by look at his mobile.

"Yes - hers is newer, a recent model, released in the last sixth months. Touch screen, wifi, all the mod cons. His is older, less up to date - released over a year ago, scratched, well worn, crack in the screen - needed replacing. A student couldn't afford this kind of phone for herself," he said flipping Kate's iPhone in his hand, "Look at him, he couldn't replace his own - so it was a gift from someone else."

"Her parents are rich," Jane responded to his question. Sherlock smirked.

"Exactly. No engagement ring either, which is surprising. Could mean they weren't that serious, but the killer wouldn't have picked them if they didn't at least appear genuinely in love, so there must be an objection to their relationship somewhere. Both of their phones have several missed calls, rejected calls, unanswered texts from their parents. Neither got along with their Mum and Dad and the story is important to him so we can assume that the victim's parents didn't see eye to eye either. Think about the play - the Montague's and Capulet's feuded, and would have objected to Romeo and Juliet's union. These two meet at Uni, fall in love - she's rich, he's not. Disapproving parents on her side, which in turn aggravates the parents on his side. Some kind of...class snobbery."

"Plenty of kids these days aren't in constant contact with their parents..." Jane said with a shake of the head.

Sherlock waved a hand frantically. "Not to this extent. The last text she made on her phone was to him." He pulled up her texts. "_Meet me at the crypts St. Bride's Church on Fleet Street, X X X,_" he read, not disguising the slight sneer as he read the kisses. "That was sent three and a half hours ago. But only half an hour before that, she'd sent him a text arranging to meet him at the local cinema."

John blinked as he tried to follow. "The killer abducted her then, and sent the second text to lure Philips here?"

Sherlock nodded. "Philips replied and rang her after the final text but she never responded."

"So, he's worried about her and heads here," Jane replied. "Romeo hears that Juliet has died and goes to her family tomb intent on killing himself with poison."

"But the killer couldn't force them to kill themselves," John said incredulously, folding his arms.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Not strictly true John - our cab driver friend proved that one. But in this case, he didn't. Look at the small puncture mark on the boy's neck - syringe. Probably caught him by surprise from behind as he tended to his unconscious girlfriend."

Jane, who was noting it down, paused. "There was a faint trace of chloroform around her mouth," she said with a frown. "I doubt she came round before she died."

Sherlock sniffed as he looked around once again. "It seems the cruellest, but ironically, this was the most humane of all of the murders. They wouldn't have experienced any pain. Just sleep."

"Yeah, well that's not much consolation," John murmured mostly to himself. Trust Sherlock to try and put a positive spin on the innocent murder of two young people.

Jane's phone buzzed shrilly in her pocket in the silence of the crypt but as she fished it out from inside her scrubs she simply glanced at it and pressed the reject button. "What?" she asked Sherlock as he watched her, but the man shrugged and didn't say a word.

"How are we supposed to know where he's going to strike next? The killings are random aren't they?" John said, clearing his throat to interrupt.

"Yes and no," Sherlock mused. "He's an opportunist – look how quickly this next murder came after the last, but that was luck I guess…"

"Yeah, really lucky," Jane murmured from her clipboard.

"But he has to pick people who are suitable for the roles he wants them to be. Grimes and his murdered wife. A boyfriend and girlfriend with disapproving parents. When we look into Macbeth I have no doubt he'll be every inch the Scottish traitor, just as Ben Tobin fulfilled his part to some extent."

John looked up. "Sorry?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock frowned, pulling off his gloves. Jane didn't answer, leaving him to feel ridiculous as he opened his mouth again.

"No."

"Ben Tobin was a peeping tom. The quote? Tobin was the observer, but the killer knew his secret. Of course I can't be certain because the notes weren't forwarded on to me as promised, but I'd wager his mother remarried his Uncle too."

Jane smiled to herself. "Ah. Was that a subtle dig at me?"

"How clumsy of me – I wasn't trying to be subtle," Sherlock shot back.

"Well...I have been rather busy...dealing with the triple murder? That's now a quintet. And don't even try and suggest that if you'd have had them, this wouldn't have happened. Two days after Tobin. Not even you could have caught him that quickly," she said, as she finished her notes. Sherlock scoffed loudly, making her head snap up. Jane placed her clipboard down and sighed. "I shall deliver them _personally_," she smiled, clasping her hands together.

Lestrade walked into the stone crypt and glanced at them all with a fraught expression. "You got anything to go on?"

The shake of the head from Jane made him sigh wearily. "How are we supposed to bloody catch him?"

"He's a serial killer. We have to wait for him to make a mistake," John answered, remembering the pink lady's case.

"He already has," Sherlock said. "Lisa Grimes."

"Yeah why did you want to know about her? It was an open and close break in case. She caught a burglar and he smothered her. You'll see from the pictures the place was trashed," Lestrade said, folding his arms.

"Lisa Grimes was the first victim," Sherlock explained. "And her death wasn't to do with Shakespeare, it was just murder. The killer knew her somehow - all the leads we have to go on are from her."

"Well, I best get you that file then," Lestrade said gruffly, going to leave and all the others making movements to follow. "Maybe we can actually try and stop the bastard before there's another one."

They paced down the corridor wordlessly, trying to put the deaths behind them but the gravity of situation was heavy as they walked to the surface; the killer wouldn't stop until he was caught and so anyone who bore resemblance to one Shakespeare's characters was at risk. A few weeks ago, they would have declared that the probability of there being that many was slim, but here they were, with five - six if you counted Lisa Grimes - dead bodies and very little in the way of progress.

But then again, Lestrade realised with some relief, they had Sherlock Holmes and he was just enough to not give up hope.


End file.
